CHAPTER 126: THE DEVIL’S DEVOTION

–Livana–

I never imagined I would find myself seated here again, in this office that feels both mine and foreign—like a crown placed upon my head that I had not quite asked for, yet must wear with poise. It has been a week since Laura’s wedding, and my father still insists on "helping out," as though his presence alone could shield me from the world’s rough edges. Perhaps, in his mind, I remain fragile—a delicate ornament tucked behind glass because I was once blind. But I am no longer that woman, though I wear the façade like a well-tailored coat, one I dare not remove too soon.

"Are you sure I should leave you here?" Damon’s voice, thick with concern and a possessiveness he doesn’t bother concealing, cut through my thoughts. I exhaled slowly.

"Yes. Deanne is with me," I replied, deliberately avoiding the directness of his gaze.

"Alright, fine." He turned toward Deanne—I could read it in the shift of his shoulders, the faint rustle of his coat. My eyes, as usual, lingered elsewhere—today on the back of his head. That hair of his needed trimming, a rebellion of strands that mirrored his stubbornness.

"Alright, Deanne. You won this time."

"Won what?" Deanne’s voice dripped with sarcasm, a familiar melody I found oddly comforting.

"Whatever," he dismissed with a sigh. "Take care of my wife."

"She’s not fragile," Deanne scoffed, the words laced with defiance. "She can walk, talk, hear—and she’s certainly not numb."

"Yeah, yeah."

He turned to me again, and I kept my eyes fixed at a level just shy of his. I felt, rather than saw, his face lower toward mine. I raised my hand, meeting his jawline where a day’s worth of stubble had gathered like unruly ivy. His arm slid around my lower back as his lips found mine, and I kissed him back, because that is what we do now—kiss as if it were always so, as if it were normal.

Once upon a time, I recoiled from his kisses, detested their intrusion. Now? Now, I am not sure whether I live within his world of desire or merely orbit it. Or perhaps he grew into me, threading himself through the cracks I thought unyielding. I will not say I love him—not aloud, not even to myself. Denial, after all, is the silk that keeps certain truths from fraying.

"Alright, baby. I’ll pick you up later—I just have a few matters to see to." He brushed my cheek with another kiss. "I love you," he whispered, and with that, he departed, the door shutting softly behind him.

I finally allowed my gaze to drift toward Deanne, who now leaned against her desk, arms crossed, a smirk tugging at her lips.

"Wow," she drawled, chuckling. "I love you." She mimicked his voice—low, dramatic, almost ridiculous. "Who would’ve thought? The bastard you loathed most, now your husband—kissing you before work, whispering sweet nothings. If someone told me years ago this would happen, I’d have laughed them out of the room."

"Do I have a better option then?" I mused, circling my desk and sinking into the comfortable cradle of my swivel chair. "The world is full of bastards, Deanne, but very few who qualify like Damon does. Besides, my family once despised the Blackwells—so naturally, this pleases me."

"You’re not wrong," she conceded, rifling through the files on her desk. "Marrying a poor man wouldn’t make the story more charming. Men and their egos—most don’t care to be outshone by a domineering wife."

"Speaking of fragile egos," I tilted my head slightly, "has your mother ever contacted you?"

Her eyes met mine briefly, then cooled. "I don’t want to get involved with that woman anymore." A scoff escaped her lips. "She’s my mother, and yet I have nothing but hate for her."

I could not blame her. I had seen the scars invisible to most—the nights she confessed how her stepfather lingered outside her bathroom, how he crept into her room as she slept, and how, when she sought her mother’s protection, she was rewarded with a slap and branded a whore. Her mother, a woman so consumed by her own fading allure, turned her daughter into both rival and mirror.

I pitied her, truly. That woman went under the knife again and again, chasing a youth that slipped through her fingers like water. Deanne, by contrast, needed none of it. Even without a stroke of makeup, she was effortlessly exquisite, the kind of beauty that made lesser women envious and men—Caine, for instance—foolishly fortunate. If I were a man, I might have made my move long ago.

I began flipping through papers, my fingers grazing each page.

"So," I asked, a touch too casually, "do you plan on getting pregnant and starting a family with Caine?"

She paused, her eyes lifting from the text.

"Are you serious, Livana? We live in a cruel world."

"I know." I allowed a smirk to curve my lips. "That’s what makes it interesting—less dull, more... unpredictable."

"Bringing a life into this world is no small thing."

"You have wealth, you have protection—why not?" I teased. "I am even willing to adopt your children."

She rolled her eyes heavenward. "Oh, please. You already have heirs—the twins."

"Not enough."

Her eyes narrowed. "Are you serious?"

"Quite."

"Why not find a surrogate, or something less... archaic?"

"We’ve tried. IVF, consultations—the works. But I’m cautious. Damon and I have been, well, copulating like rabbits, as vulgar as that sounds. It’s me—the problem lies with me."

"Fine, fine," she sighed. "Your body, your choice. Just don’t make me your baby maker."

I laughed, shaking my head.

"By the way," her smirk returned, feline and knowing, "I see how you look at Damon."

My brows arched ever so slightly.

"I think you’re falling for him."

"No. I’m not." The words left my lips swiftly, like a reflex. Love? For Damon? Never. Or so I tell myself, again and again, until even the lie begins to sound like the truth.

–Damon–

My wife and I are rarely apart, and yet I find myself missing her even when her scent still lingers on my clothes. It’s absurd—this need, this gnawing absence when she is not within reach. We tell ourselves that time apart is healthy, that space keeps a relationship balanced. Perhaps. But I do not like it. I want her near, always—though I know my presence can be suffocating. Perhaps that is the disease I carry: a love that strangles while it cherishes.

"Are you still thinking about Livana?" Caine asked, his tone annoyingly knowing.

"How do you know?" I didn’t bother to hide my irritation.

"How would I not?" he scoffed. "Bro, focus on your work." He shoved the stack of documents toward me with that careless efficiency of his. "We’ve got a lot to clean up." A flash drive slid across the desk. "These are the other proofs that could lead to our downfall. I need them wiped—fast."

"Don’t trouble yourself over the downfall," I said with a quiet laugh. "I have my wife to clean up for me. We have an arrangement—she handles the light, I handle the dark."

Caine’s eyes flickered, sharp as a blade. "And what if Livana planned your downfall with it?"

I leaned back, exhaling slowly. "Hmm. A fair point." I smirked, a slow, dangerous curve of my lips. "I love her. If she dares betray me, I’ll just imprison her and suffocate her with my love. And when she stops struggling... I’ll clean up the mess."

Caine barked out a laugh. "You’re insane."

"Am I? And what about you? You’re obsessed with Deanne."

"I am not insane," he replied, flat and precise. "I respect Deanne. I’m attracted to her, yes. But I won’t suffocate her with my love and ruin her with it. If she betrays me, then that’s the end of that. I’ll get angry, I’ll hate her, and I’ll walk away. That’s a normal reaction. Unlike you." His words cut—true, clean, merciless.

He was right, of course. But I already know myself: anger, yes—but I would never simply walk away. I would clean up the mess, even if the mess was her.

I don’t think Livana would ever betray me. We are partners in this world of ours. And she is not that low—not like the others.

I skimmed through the documents, cross-checking the supporting evidence. Clean. Too clean. "Did you do this?"

"Nope. David did."

"Hmm." I nodded slowly. "I never thought David had it in him."

Caine smirked faintly. "You never know. That guy may act like a rebel, like a playboy, but he’s more responsible than you think."

My jaw tightened. "What do you mean by that?"

Caine set his fountain pen down deliberately, his expression thoughtful. "He’s taking care of your sister, your parents, your grandparents... and he’s a damn good CEO. A great leader for the corporate side of the empire. Your sister trusts him more than anyone else, and he delivers."

I leaned back in my chair, fingers drumming the armrest. "Alright," I said evenly. "And what do you think of me?"

Caine’s laugh was sharp, almost cruel. "Bro, you were born to run the underworld. That’s your element. There’s nothing wrong with that. But you? You’re emotionally detached from your family, obsessed with Livana, and a control freak."

I reached into my pocket and flicked open my Swiss knife, the blade glinting beneath the office light. "I think I should cut the sharpness from your tongue. Maybe resize it to its proper length."

"Bro! What the hell!" he threw his hands up. "My tongue is very important. Especially to Deanne."

I squinted at him, eyes narrowing to slits. If he weren’t so busy pleasing Deanne—and distracting her attention away from my wife—I might have done it, just to watch him bleed a little.

But I didn’t. Not today. Caine is my best friend—infuriatingly honest, relentlessly frank, and dangerous in his own right. And that’s what makes him useful. And terribly, terribly annoying.